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JEltcfmel Bartmore 


By R. W. SWANN 

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Copyright 19x3 by R. W. Swann 


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Gift 

Author 

<p*r*cn> 

JUL 22 1811 


To the memory of F. E. Cleaveland these pages are 

* 

affectionately inscribed, because if the histoiy of the great 
movement now so widespread for the bettering of condi- 
tions among our people is ever fairly and honestly written, 
his honored name must be placed in the foremost ranks 
of the pioneers in this work of justice and good economy. 




















































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JEltcfmel 35artmore 


Ormsby was a quaint old place in the early fifties, 
and is now a place no more. Where the tiny houses 
stood then, surrounded by well-kept gardens in- 
closed by white picket fences, great and massive 
structures tower aloft, unrelieved by even so much 
as a single blade of grass, and ungarnished by one 
single touch of what would speak of home or home 
life. On the very spot where Michael Bartmore’s 
parents dwelt in their humble cottage, and where 
he was born, there now stands a bank — the bank 
in which the busy merchants of this now thrifty 
place are wont to store most of their treasure. 
Where the old coach used to enter the village, 
bringing mail and other parcels from the nearest 
points, there now stands the railroad station into 
which the snorting, shrieking, ever-impatient 
steam-driven monsters rush with laden trains and 
with men and women coming here to seek new 
enterprises where once the tranquil quiet of rural 
peace and solitude prevailed. No longer is the 
summer air fragrant with the odors from sweet and 
many-colored flowers and the sweetest of all scents 
— the smell of new-mown hay ; but, instead, the 
smell of sun-parched streets, of market stuffs fast 
withering on the stands, of those who have come 
here to sell them, the smell of grease and oil from 
the many machine shops in the town, and of the 
crowded stables where the horses are kept — these 
and many other scents make themselves known to 
visitors here now. 


6 


Michael Bartmore 


The little village lay in a sort of hollow, and was 
surrounded on all sides by splendidly kept and 
thriving farms; and on these farms many of the 
sons, and some of the daughters, of the dwellers in 
Ormsby village were employed. The farms were 
fertile, and their owners were, as a rule, very pros- 
perous men, full of enterprise, and consequently 
very progressive in their methods of conducting 
their agricultural business. 

Minglewood was, of all these farms, the largest, 
most prosperous, and the most beautiful place for 
miles around, and those who found employment 
there esteemed themselves a little more fortunate 
than the rest. This farm ran down to the river, or, 
rather, creek which passed through the village, and 
which also furnished the power for the mill that 
stood on its banks. 

Mr. Samuel Fenwick was the owner and pro- 
prietor of Minglewood Farm, and his kindly nature, 
his just and upright dealings, and his never-failing 
interest in the pleasures of the young people ren- 
dered him a great favorite; and his beaming face 
was sure to win a smile, even from the surliest 
dweller in the vicinity. 

Michael Bartmore, concerning whose life this 
story is written, was, at the time of which we now 
speak, a hand in the service of Mr. Fenwick on the 
Minglewood Farm, and was fast gaining favor with 
his employer, because of his industrious habits, 
cheerfulness of disposition, and aptitude in the per- 
formance of any new task that might be given him. 

A splendid specimen of early manhood was 
Michael Bartmore, full six feet in height, broad of 
shoulder and high-chested, and with limbs well- 
shaped and well-proportioned to his robust, healthy 
body. A rare thing may be said of Michael Bart- 
more: he was the strongest man for miles around, 
and at the same time the most gentle, tender- 
hearted man. In him great strength of body was 


Michael Bartmore 


7 


so coupled with strength of mind and purity of soul 
that it was something to be used only in aid of 
others — never to oppress nor to hurt them. Brave 
and fearless to do the thing he believed it his duty 
to do, scornful of deceit, and unacquainted with 
small evasions, he had won the esteem and confi- 
dence, not only of his employer, but of all who 
knew him, even before, according to the accepted 
and legal term, boyhood had merged into man’s 
estate. 

This tale may not be lengthened unnecessarily 
for it must fit into the place marked out for it ; but 
this thing must be said, that all the strength, all 
the splendid physical force, all the manliness of 
soul within this man had need of even greater help 
than was within himself, and the battle that he had 
to fight was long and fierce ; and that he ultimately 
conquered is a credit to his kind, for, in his darkest 
hours, when his soul seemed dying within him, and 
when he cared not if his sojourn here might be over, 
when despair — hopeless, unutterable despair — 
seemed to stifle every other sense of feeling within 
him,— then it was that other hands went forth to 
hold him up, and other hearts strove with his poor 
bleeding one, and ceased not to strive until the 
hard-fought battle was won and Michael stood 
firmly facing that which, as it had at first seemed to 
him, must shut him of? from all that was of real 
value to him, and that could render his life a truly 
active and useful one. Never did calamity so dire 
befall any man but that, if only he could be held up 
by the sympathy and practical support of his fellow- 
men, he could live it down. It is true that the 
greatest effort must be made by the stricken one; 
but it behooves us all to see to it that the struggler 
has our moral and practical support in his efforts 
to win place and standing, even though the effort 
be made with heavy odds against him. 

Michael Bartmore was the son of a worthy father 


8 


Michael Bartmore 


who had died before the boy had reached the tenth 
year of his age. The father had managed Mingle- 
wood Farm for many years, had purchased a little 
home in the village, and, with his wife and little 
son, had lived happily until that mysterious call 
came, and amid the sorrowing people of the little 
place his widow and her son were left to do their 
best in such affliction. 

“Bartmore has served me well, and I will not see 
his wife and child want for anything while I’ve this 
good farm of mine to supply me,” said Mr. Fenwick 
to his wife, and the good woman said she hoped 
that he would do well by them. The people all felt 
that Fenwick was the rightful friend of the widow 
and her child, and he began at once to perform those 
good offices for them which, as will appear in this 
account, ceased not, but were more faithfully and 
diligently performed as the need for them became 
greater. 

Michael attended the village school. His atten- 
tion to the tasks set for him by his teachers, his 
manly bearing among his schoolmates, and his up- 
right and frank admission of his transgressions 
when he had been guilty of any, made him a great 
favorite in the school, while his love of play, his 
untiring activities in the rural sports so much in 
repute among the young folks, rendered him a 
leader among them. 

Ormsby and the surrounding country was indeed 
a most salubrious dwelling-place for the boys and 
girls, and, naturally, of course, the men and women 
were, as a rule, well developed, and the lads in the 
open fields at their sports, and the men in the fields 
at their work, were very good to look upon, and 
their pleasant faces told of happiness and content- 
ment not often to be met with in our crowded busy 
cities. 

Never did manhood seem to have come with its 
responsibilities and its cares and settle upon anyone 


Michael Bartmore 


9 


so easily and so naturally as it came to Bartmore. 
Established now in the place his father had so faith- 
fully filled, happy in the consciousness that he was 
in a position to requite in some measure the great 
kindness of Mr. Fenwick, and proud of the many 
little comforts he was now able to give his mother 
in their cosy little home, his ever-happy face in- 
spired all who looked upon him with a desire to 
emulate his useful, happy life. He loved life. 
Nature told to him new and beautiful tales each 
day, and, as his very being seemed to drink in her 
hallowed, wholesome lessons, he grew stronger 
bodily each day, and as his strength of body in- 
creased, that strength of soul, that something with- 
in that makes itself felt by all who are brought into 
contact with it, increased also. 

This, then, is the Michael Bartmore, the pride of 
Ormsby village, as we behold him seated by his 
mother’s side on the eve of one frosty Thanksgiv- 
ing. She sat contentedly knitting as he old her of 
the little things of interest, the bits of village gossip 
that reached him at his work. And then he told 
her of a plan for the next day — a plan for a general 
holiday, and of his purpose to spend the day in 
company with three others hunting in the great 
uncleared woodlands of the Minglewood Farm. 

“Yes, mother,” he said, “young Dick is a fine 
fellow, and he’s doing well at college, as we all said 
he would. He told me to tell you that, after the 
hunting is over to-morrow, he is coming home with 
me to have a cup of your tea; and — now, mind, 
mother, he was in earnest when he said it — to have 
a nice chat with Mother Bartmore by her pleasant 
fireside.” 

The old lady smiled. She was pleased, and why 
should she not be pleased to know that Richard 
Fenwick, the son of her friend and benefactor and 
the friend of her beloved son, had set a time apart 
to come and talk with her? Her boy and this lad 


10 


Michael Bartmore 


had been boon companions, and she had a warm 
spot in her kind heart for the now ambitious young 
student, and felt much pride in his success. 

“How many will go a-hunting to-morrow, Mich- 
ael?” 

“Four of us, mother,” he answered; “and Dick 
will ride the colt I broke a short while since. He’s 
a wonderful rider, is Dick, mother; and I can tell 
you, there’s no finer figure on horseback than he.” 

“Is Mr. Fenwick going?” she asked. 

“No; he says his hunting days are over now,” 
answered the son; “but we’d like to have him 
along, for, though he is not so young as the rest of 
us, he rides wonderfully, and is the best hunter of 
us all. He has a fine gun, and I am to have it to- 
morrow, and he says I’m to prove myself worthy 
of it.” 

Clear and crisp broke that Thanksgiving morn- 
ing. Four happy faces looked out upon the lovely 
landscape, and their young hearts leaped for very 
joy that they were alive to appreciate, nay, to be a 
very part of the scene. Four young and active men 
they were, bold of spirit, strong of mind and body, 
and fast old friends from early boyhood days ; and 
now they are mounted, and, with a shout of joy, 
they are off like the wind, and are gone to the 
woods, where their hunting is to begin. 

The village lads stood and watched them as they 
galloped gaily on, and, doubtless, many a boyish 
heart beat high with the hope that one day he 
would ride forth and look as handsome as did these 
young followers of Nimrod, the hunter of old. 

Four stalwart men, well mounted, all rode into 
the woodlands of Minglewood Farm with never a 
thought of a single thing but to find and to kill the 
game they had come to seek; four gallant steeds 
carried them in, and seemed glad to bear them 
thither, and all was merry as a merry wedding-bell. 


Michael Bartmore 


11 


And of them all, the merriest man was Michael 
Bartmore, the manager at Minglewood. 

Young Fenwick sat his horse well. He could 
manage the young steed as well as could Bartmore, 
who had broken her; and it was a pretty sight to 
see her yield obedience to his every wish, and to see 
how fondly he looked upon her, for she was his, the 
gift of a loving father to his well-beloved son. 

The sport was very good that day. There seemed 
no end of rabbits, and the dogs were fully alive to 
their part in the hunt. All the men were well used 
to hunting, and were, therefore, seldom known to 
fire at random, or to miss their mark; and, the 
game being plentiful, as has been observed, a gener- 
ous spirit of emulation took possession of them all, 
so that their spoils soon grew to greater proportions 
than was usual on these occasions. 

It is strange that these great-hearted men, these 
strong and mighty men, must, for very sport, kill, 
even for the sake of killing. They had no need of 
all their victims for food; and, though no one said 
so, their very successes were like to become a 
burden to them, and yet, striving one to outdo 
the other, they went on killing, and each man was 
triumphant as his last shot placed him for a time 
ahead of his companions. 

It was a little past noon when Bartmore, coming 
up with young Fenwick, pointed to his well-filled 
sack, saying, playfully : 

“Dick, I’ll stop until you catch up.” 

Fenwick turned to make answer, when Bartmore, 
whose eye was ever keen, exclaimed: 

“There’s your chance, Dick!” and he pointed to 
a rabbit that was scampering away at full speed. 

Fenwick saw the creature and wheeled round to 
pursue, but either he startled his young horse, or 
else his hand slipped, and his gun was discharged 
so suddenly and so unexpectedly that it fell from 
his hand. In a moment the young horse, being 


12 


Michael Bartmore 


startled by the discharge so close about her ears, 
began to rear, and would have thrown a less alert 
rider from the saddle. Fenwick, as he struggled 
with his horse, called to Bartmore, telling him that 
he had better get the rabbit if he could. He re- 
ceived no reply, and, having now got control of his 
horse, turned his head in the direction in which 
Bartmore had been standing when last he had 
spoken, expecting, as he afterwards said, to see him 
mounted and ready to ride away. In another in- 
stant there sounded through those woods a cry of 
such unutterable despair, such bitter anguish, that 
those who heard it were for a moment rendered 
helpless with fear and alarm. 

“Help, help, for God’s sake! Oh, Bartmore, do 
you hear me? My God ! I have killed him ! Help ! 
Help! Are you mad? Come, Nichols, Moreland, I 
tell you ; I’ve killed Bartmore ! Bartmore ! Michael ! 
Oh, speak to me! I did not fire! Oh, Nichols, 
Moreland! Quick! Quick! He’s dead!” 

By this time Nichols and Moreland had come up 
with the distraught man, whom they found bending 
over the still form of his friend and still calling upon 
him to speak to him, and his whole body twitching 
in the throes of an agony too great for any human 
interpretation. They gently drew Fenwick back, 
and then, stooping, they lifted Bartmore between 
them. 

“He’s not dead,” murmured Nichols. “Come, 
Dick; lend a hand. Let us get him home.” 

But no answer came from Fenwick. He, the 
strong and stalwart man, had fallen prostrate upon 
the earth, stricken helpless by the horror of what 
had happened. 

“You stay here, Nichols,” said Moreland, in a 
voice that quivered not a little as he spoke; “you 
stay here, and I’ll go for help.” 

So Moreland, mounting, hastened to the nearest 
farm, where, upon his telling what had happened, 


Michael Bar into re 


13 


immediate preparation was made to receive the in- 
jured man, and the man of the house, with one of 
the farm-hands, hastened back with Moreland, tak- 
ing with them such conveniences for carrying the 
sufferer as were available. They lost no time in 
returning, and found Nichols still supporting Bart- 
more in his arms, while poor Fenwick, who had by 
this time regained sufficient strength to move, bent 
over him, calling to him again and again, in a voice 
that was full of the pleading agony of utter despair, 
to speak but one word to him ; and again and again 
the poor, unhappy man would say, “I did not fire, 
Michael ; indeed I did not. I want you to speak 
and tell me that you know I did not fire that shot !” 

They lifted him gently and bore him away to the 
farm-house, where a place had been prepared to 
receive him. One of the lads had been sent off 
posthaste for the doctor, and very soon after they 
had brought Bartmore and placed him upon the 
bed, the lad returned with the physician. 

By this time the injured man began to show signs 
of returning consciousness. His lips moved slightly, 
and, as the physician entered the room, those who 
bent over poor Bartmore understood him to moan 
about the darkness; and Moreland, who was near- 
est to him, spoke softly to him, asking if he did not 
know him. The sufferer seemed to try to think, but 
only murmured, “It is dark, so very dark,” and then 
he seemed to relapse into unconsciousness again. 
The doctor stepped to the bedside. 

“Gunshot, eh?” he half inquired, half asserted; 
“he’s alive, at least, but he’s badly hit.” 

Then the laconic old doctor made his examina- 
tion. Not a soul stirred in the room, save when the 
housewife gently carried her little five-year-old 
daughter away, because the child wept bitterly at 
sight of the big fellow who had many a time tossed 
her upon his knee, thus stricken down and unable 
to smile upon her. The doctor applied restoratives, 


14 


Michael Bartmore 


and Bartmore began to revive; still no word was 
spoken. Tenderly as a woman, the big-handed, 
raw-boned doctor touched the wounds, and learned 
as best he could how bad they were ; and, as he thus 
examined, his face gave no sign to those who so 
earnestly watched him. At last he had finished, and 
the wounds were covered from sight. He turned 
from the bed. 

“Will he die?” asked poor Fenwick, in a broken 
voice. 

“God knows,” answered the doctor, in a softer, 
gentler voice than any had ever heard him use be- 
fore; “God knows! But there’s a chance for his 
life, if ” 

“If what, man?” Fenwick was himself now. 
There was a chance ; there was an if. Perhaps 
some effort of his might help, and what would he 
not gladly do to save his beloved friend? “If what? 
Speak quickly. It was my gun, in my own unlucky 
hands, that gave the wound. Can I do nothing 
for him?” 

“Ride, someone, and ride fast, to Edgewood, and 
tell Dr. Granston to come here at once. I am not 
equal to this case. Bring Granston, and tell him — 
but stop ; I’ll write the message, and he’ll come.” 

So the message was written, and, though every 
man there longed to do this errand, not one dis- 
puted Fenwick’s right to do it. 

“I’ll wait here,” said the doctor; “remember, 
minutes count. Be quick; everything may depend 
upon this.” 

There was no need for more words. Fenwick 
was mounted and away like the wind. Never was 
horse so driven by him before. As he passed 
through Ormsby, the people called to him, and 
some even thought that the young horse was having 
it all her own way, and these became frightened for 
his safety, and would have tried to stop him, but he 
waved them aside and drove fiercely, rapidly on. 


Michael Bartmore 


15 


Leaving Fenwick thus on his ride of mercy, let us 
return to the chamber where Bartmore lay. In a 
very short time after Fenwick had departed, the 
wounded man stirred, and as the restoratives had 
taken effect, he asked where he was, and they told 
him. 

“It is all dark,” he said; “I can see nothing.” 

“I’ve bandaged up your wounds, Michael,” an- 
swered the doctor, “and you can’t expect to see 
through my bandages. Lie still; that’s very im- 
portant now.” 

“Are you there, Dick? I can’t see. Where are 
you?” he then asked. 

“He’s gone to bring Dr. Granston; I want him 
to see you,” the doctor said, quietly. 

For some moments there was a deep hush in the 
room ; then the patient spoke again : “Does my 
mother know?” he asked. 

The doctor told him she did not. 

“Where’s Nichols? And where’s Moreland? Are 
they here?” he asked. “I can’t see, doctor; it’s 
dark as night. Can’t you loosen these bandages a 
little?” 

Moreland and Nichols both spoke to him, and the 
doctor did not at once answer. 

“I can’t stand it, I tell you, doctor; it’s dark. Let 
me see the light a little. It’s darker than night. I 
can loosen the bandages, and I’ll be careful.” 

His hands went to his head, but the doctor stayed 
them. 

“Now, boy, have a little patience,” said the doc- 
tor; “light isn’t good for you just now. You must 
be quiet and let my work alone.” 

Bartmore made no reply, but those who looked 
upon the face of old Dr. Chapman — for this was 
the name of the faithful old doctor who served the 
people of Ormsby and the country round about so 
well — saw that it was a grave and troubled face, 
and that the man who seldom showed signs of any 


16 


Michael Bartmore 


emotion, was agitated and anxious. No one spoke 
to him, no one asked questions of him now, for he 
had made it clear that he had nothing to communi- 
cate to them. 

It was a strange sight that might be seen in that 
room then. Bartmore lay prostrate upon the bed, 
restlessly twitching his fingers, and at times seem- 
ing to be suffering great pain. Nichols and More 
land stood at the foot of the bed, dejected and look- 
ing the utter helplessness they both felt, while the 
man of the house, and several of his neighbors and 
his farm-hands, stood about the doorway. As these 
men sat and waited, they all looked from time to 
time at the doctor; but he stood as one alone, and 
seemed unconscious of their presence, or that they 
would fain learn of him the thing he had once, and 
only once, made any statement about; and that 
statement gave them no comfort, no hope. As they 
stood thus silently, there was a rustling sound, and 
Bartmore’s dog, in spite of some slight effort to 
prevent him, came into the room, and, seeing his 
master lying there, came to the bedside and affec- 
tionately licked his hands. They would have taken 
the dog away, but Bartmore, though weak and in 
great pain at that moment, patted the creature 
fondly upon the head, and telling them to let the 
dog stay where he was, said, as if the poor animal 
could understand him: 

“No more sport for me, old fellow; it is dark — 
darker, I know well, than any bandages could 
make it.” 

The doctor started at these words. The men in 
the room looked inquiringly at him, but he uttered 
not a word, only the set lips quivered a little, and, 
looking steadfastly down upon the stricken man, he 
seemed to .find no change that could alter his grave 
expression; and as he turned suddenly away and 
walked hastily to the window, more than one man 
who watched him, said afterwards that the tears 


Michael Bart more 


17 


stood in his eyes; nor did he ever deny that it was 
even so. 

No human effort could have been greater than 
that which Richard Fenwick made that day. Noth- 
ing stayed him. Fences and ditches were leaped 
without pause. The horse strained every muscle, 
and seemed ready to give up her life in the service. 
On they rode, through fields where no paths were 
to be found — yes, even through ground that few 
would dare to trespass upon; but if any tried to 
stop him, Richard Fenwick heard not, or, hearing, 
heeded not their calls; for the friend of his child- 
hood — the friend, the beloved friend of his youth, 
lay wounded — dying, perhaps — and the gun in 
his hand had laid him low. 

Dr. Granston was in, and read the brief note 
Fenwick handed him. 

“You’ll come now, doctor, won’t you?” asked 
Fenwick, breathlessly, as he sank almost exhausted 
into the seat the doctor had offered him. 

“In half an hour I will go with you, Mr. Fenwick; 
I cannot go sooner, for I have one patient I must 
see at once. Sit here and rest, and I will return as 
soon as possible, and we will go.” 

“But, doctor, he’s hurt ; I did it — I shot him ; he 
may die. Your patient is not dangerously ill; 
surely you can come at once.” 

“Sit down there, my man; I’ll go with you as 
soon as I can. Doctor Chapman knows I am ever 
ready to serve him, but my patient has need of me, 
and has the first claim.” 

With these words, the busy doctor put on his 
great coat, for it was growing very cold, and went 
away. The disconsolate Fenwick must wait. His 
friend might die, and he would never hear him 
speak again. Why could not Dr. Granston come at 
once? This very half hour of time might save poor 
Bartmore; and — for the horror of the thing was 
strong upon poor Fenwick — free his life from a 


18 


Michael Bartmore 


reproach which, if Bartmore recovered not, must 
ever rest upon him. Thus did poor Fenwick sit 
and, finding sitting would not do, strode about the 
room and waited. How long, how unspeakably 
long, that waiting seemed no one but Fenwick 
could really know. But at last the doctor returned. 

Dr. Granston was soon ready to start, and Fen- 
wick got into his buggy with him, leaving his own 
wearied horse in the doctor’s stable, where orders 
were given to care for her well. 

The road over which they must travel was none 
of the best, but the doctor’s buggy was strong, and 
his horse was fleet and sure, so they made the jour- 
ney back to the farmhouse where Bartmore lay, as 
speedily as could reasonably have been expected. 
The journey was almost a silent one. The doctor 
asked Fenwick whether the wound was not a gun- 
shot wound, stating that Dr. Chapman’s note was 
not very clear on that point. 

“I shot him,” answered Fenwick; “the gun was 
loaded with shot, and I don’t know whether the 
wound is great or small ; but Dr. Chapman said the 
case was beyond him, and — I’m going mad ! I tell 
you, sir, I shot him. Do you understand me? I, 
who love him ; I, who have no brother but him. It 
was my wretched hand that did this thing!” 

“Do you mean that in anger you have shot him?” 
asked Dr. Granston, sternly. “Was there a quar- 
rel?” 

Then Fenwick explained. The doctor softened at 
once, and told him to keep a good heart, and that 
he was sure that he, Fenwick, suffered as greatly as 
his friend. He begged Fenwick to be calm, and 
assured him that he would spare no pains to save 
his friend, and that until the result of the accident 
could be actually known, he would remain with 
Bartmore. 

It was five o’clock in the afternoon when Dr. 
Granston and his companion reached the end of 


Michael Bartmore 


19 


their journey. One figure more sat in the chamber 
where Bartmore lay, now very still, but perfectly 
conscious. The newcomer was his mother. She 
sat by the bedside, her head bowed, and her thin, 
wrinkled hand clasped in that of her only child. As 
Fenwick and the doctor entered the room, Mrs. 
Bartmore arose quickly, and hastening to meet 
them, she placed her hand affectionately upon Fen- 
wick’s shoulder, saying in a broken voice as she 
did so : 

“Richard, my poor boy, he knows you were not 
at fault in this dreadful day’s disaster. He will tell 
you ; they will all tell you so.” 

Then, indeed, did the strong man give way. 
Sobbing like a little child, he tottered toward the 
bed, but they put forth their arms and caught him ; 
for the strain had been too great. And they bore 
him from the room, that they might care for and 
restore him. 

After the doctors had greeted each other warmly, 
and Mrs. Bartmore had tried in vain to thank Dr. 
Granston for coming so far, they quietly cleared the 
room, not even permitting the pleading mother to 
remain there. And when they were alone with their 
patient, they at once made a complete examination 
of the wound. They took off the bandages, of 
course, and instantly Bartmore cried out, in a tone 
of deep anguish : 

“I knew it! The bandages are away, yet it is 
dark — darker than the darkest night. I am not 
afraid to die ; but to live thus ! Oh, I cannot, I will 
not bear it! Speak, Dr. Chapman; you know the 
truth. Speak, I say; tell me, am I blind?” 

The old doctor looked inquiringly at Dr. Gran- 
ston, and then turned from the bedside. 

“Mr. Bartmore,” said Dr. Granston, bending over 
him and taking his hand, “at present you are blind. 
We are here to help you, if we can. I will not de- 
ceive you, nor will Dr. Chapman do so; we fear 


20 


Michael Bartmore 


that this blindness is the result of a paralysis which 
no human skill can cure; but we are not sure. Much 
may depend upon you now; and if there is any 
hope, your perfect quietude is the one thing needed 
to make it possible for that hope to be realized.” 

“Thank you, Dr. Granston,” said Dr. Chapman, 
softly. “I could not do it, somehow.” 

“Will you take me home?” the poor fellow asked, 
submissively. “I will do as you bid me; but, oh, 
my God ! Think of what it may mean ! I may never 
again be of use, either to myself or to others — a 
burden, an object of pity — yes, even of public 
charity. Do you think I can look upon these dread- 
ful possibilities and be patient?” 

They , quieted him, and told him they could not 
then remove him, but that they would await the 
coming of an oculist, for whom they had tele- 
graphed, before proceeding further. 

Why linger longer here? Why delay the truth? 
The oculist came. All that could be done for Bart- 
more was done, but human aid could not avail him, 
and within three short weeks from the time of the 
unfortunate accident, Michael Bartmore knew that 
he was blind, and that there was no hope left to 
him, no promise that the years that were to come 
might bring any change in his condition. And how 
did he bear this dreadful knowledge, do you ask. 
Let us follow him in his future career, and we shall 
see. 

Mr. Samuel Fenwick had done his part. “If 
there’s a way to make him see, if money will avail, 
I want him to see,” said he. “He’s a valuable man, 
and we can’t spare him.” 

When it became known that Bartmore’s sight 
could never be restored to him, Mr. Fenwick came 
to see him, and tried in his outspoken way to com- 
fort and to reassure him concerning such things as 
might trouble him, especially concerning the matter 
of his future living, and the care of his aged mother. 


Michael Bartmore 


21 


“Michael, lad,” he said, coming where Bartmore 
sat disconsolately in the great chair where he often 
sat now for hours without moving, or seeming to 
have the least desire to move, “I’m sorry, but cheer 
up ; you’ve no need to worry, for you’ll never know 
what it is to want, nor shall your mother. Dick 
says that we’ve every right to help you to our 
utmost, and that you must simply permit us to do 
so, and never think it an obligation.” 

Bartmore listened to the words of his good old 
friend, but it was not difficult to see that the words 
not only did not bring him comfort, but even 
seemed to increase his agitation and restlessness. 
His face flushed, his breath came hard, and when 
Mr. Fenwick had finished speaking, his pent-up 
feelings burst from him in words so earnestly ut- 
tered and so clearly setting forth those feelings and 
emotions which alone can find place in the hearts 
of those who have thus been brought suddenly face 
to face with what seems to them a dark, unbearable 
and hopeless state. 

“Mr. Fenwick,” he said, “you mean well by me, 
and you’ve done well by me, and I want you to 
know that I do, and that I shall always appreciate 
your inexhaustible goodness to me and to my poor 
mother; but, Mr. Fenwick, think of my condition 
as it is! Think of what a death-knell those words 
so kindly meant by you must sound to all the hopes, 
all the aspirations and desires of my manhood ! 
You will ungrudgingly, nay, you will cheerfully 
feed me, clothe me, care for my every comfort, and 
for my slightest wants, if you know of them. You 
will take my mother, and she need want for noth- 
ing. I know all these things, and heaven knows I 
am grateful to you; and, since my hopes seem 
blasted by this thing that has befallen me, and since 
you have so generously come to our aid, I can tell 
you that I could accept help of you more readily 
than I could of any other being on earth; but — 


22 


Michael Bartmore 


and this I have fully determined upon — for myself, 
since by the loss of my sight I am rendered help- 
less and useless alike to others and to myself, I 
cannot, will not, longer be a burden upon you, nor 
upon any other man. The refuge for the poor and 
the helpless, sir, and even as those who have been 
forced to end their days there before me, so shall I, 
who am poor and helpless, go thither and wait with 
what patience and resignation I can command until 
the same God who has seen fit thus to afflict me 
shall grant unto me that last release for which I 
shall pray unceasingly. Nevertheless, since you 
have it in your generous heart to do what you can, 
and since by this affliction I can do nothing for her, 

I most gratefully accept your offer to care for my 
mother; for, though I know you neither ask nor 
expect it, she can and will make herself useful to 
you.” 

Mr. Fenwick moved uneasily in his chair, and, 
having thus far listened silently to Bartmore, he 
interrupted him rather impatiently : 

“Do you mean the public almshouse, Michael 
Bartmore? Do you mean that you want nothing, 
if you can help taking it, from the father of him 
whose misfortune it was to thus hurt you?” 

“I do mean the poorhouse, Mr. Fenwick,” he re- 
plied. “Your son did not fire the shot; I urged him 
to hasten, and, while he was mounting his horse, I 
still urging him, the gun was discharged, and he 
does not know, nor does anyone know, just how it 
happened. I am going to get out of the way; that’s 
about it. A blind man’s of no use on a farm, and I* 
don’t know much about anything else. I can rust 
out in one place as well as in another, and I’ve no 
right to take from you what ought to be given to 
your children. Do not think me ungrateful, for I 
am not. You have done much for me — I don’t 
know just how much, nor do I suppose you will 
ever tell me. I shall never be able to repay you in 


Michael Bartmore 


23 


any way, but in sincere gratitude, the sums of 
money you have expended in trying to save my 
sight; but I shall never do you the injustice to 
think regretfully of that ; for if they had been able 
to save the sight, I could have repaid you; and 
since they could not, I know you will never expect, 
nor want, payment. But I’m sure, now, that I can 
help neither myself nor anyone else, and I want to 
be out of the way.” 

Mr. Fenwick knew not what to say to his young 
friend. He had come to offer to him all that he 
could think of, and the blind man had refused his 
offer. He knew nothing of other blind people, for 
in those days the great possibilities, the broad and 
ever-broadening views concerning our people and 
their capabilities were but remotely foreshadowed. 
The old farmer knew not what to say, and, like 
many another disappointed, baffled man, he beat a 
hasty retreat, saying as he left Bartmore : 

“Think it over, boy ; think it over.” 

Young Richard Fenwick did not return to his 
college, as he had intended doing, immediately after 
Thanksgiving. The shock to him of the accident, 
and the final result of it, had deeply distressed him, 
and he could not make up his mind to leave the 
place where his poor afflicted companion was. It 
was in vain that Bartmore remonstrated with him 
and urged him to dismiss' the morbid feeling that 
had come upon him. Not a man attached the least 
blame to him for what had happened; nay, Bart- 
more steadfastly maintained that if Fenwick had 
been let alone, and not urged to greater activity by 
him, the accident could never have happened; and 
in this the other men who were of the party sus- 
tained him. Nevertheless, as has been said, poor 
Richard Fenwick could not recover his old buoy- 
ancy, and seemed to be rapidly lapsing into a state 
of melancholy dejection which, at least, so some of 
the people thought, was in a fair way to become as 


24 


Michael Bartmore 


deep-seated as the despondency which had settled 
upon poor Bartmore himself. When the elder Fen- 
wick returned from his interview with Bartmore 
and told his son of the state of mind in which he 
had found that unhappy man, the son grew even 
more despondent than before, and both sat help- 
lessly wondering how they might really help a man 
who, for so it then seemed to them, had obstinately 
resolved not to be helped, even by those who, as 
they saw it, had every right to help him. 

Quietly seated at her little table, knitting away 
at the stockings, she was forever making, good Mrs. 
Fenwick listened as her husband and son discussed 
the difficulty. She was a quiet woman, and her 
grief at the misiortune which had come to Michael 
Bartmore, of whom she, like most people, was very 
fond, was most sincere, and now she sympathized 
with the two men in their perplexity; still she 
seemed to see what did not occur to the others, and 
it was her suggestion that first seemed to open r 
way out of the trouble. 

“I think, father,” she said, quietly, “if we could 
find something that poor Michael could do, he 
would like to be employed. He is too independent 
to eat of our bread, unless he can in some way earn 
it. Both of you would feel just as he does, if you 
were situated as he now is, poor boy!” The sug- 
gestion was a practical one, and yet the voice quiv- 
ered as it was made, and the motherly eyes of the 
tender-hearted housewife filled with tears as she 
uttered it. 

“Why, mother,” answered the elder Fenwick, “as 
to that, now, you may be right, and I’m sorry I 
didn’t think of it. Of course, there’s nothing the 
poor fellow really can do, but if we can make him 
think he’s a-doin’ somethin’, that’s all we care 
about; but what in thunder do you think we can 
make him believe he’s a-doin’? That’s what gets 

__ _ J> 


Michael Bartmore 


25 


“He’s not to be so easily fooled, it is true,” put 
in the son ; “but mother is on the right track, father. 
I think I know how poor Bartmore feels.” 

Whether things are specially so ordered that our 
dire necessities may be met by that wise providence 
which is over all and is almost universally acknowl- 
edged, may be questioned, perhaps ; but that things 
do sometimes happen at most auspicious times for 
our good is most certainly true. The thought sug- 
gested by his mother set young Fenwick thinking, 
and his mind dwelt constantly upon the idea that 
there might be some way in which Bartmore could 
really find useful occupation. Still, he knew noth- 
ing of the question with which he was called upon 
to deal, and he was staggered on all sides, because, 
think of what he would, there was, or seemed to be, 
some detail that required the use of that sense of 
which Bartmore was deprived. To find some work 
that might be readily done without sight, without 
being possessed of the knowledge that other meth- 
ods than those in general use may well be applied 
in cases of necessity for doing any work, is, indeed, 
a most difficult and trying task, and it is especially 
difficult for the young to realize how readily those 
who are called upon to do so fall into methods of 
which, under other circumstances, they themselves 
would never have dreamed. It was while the Fen- 
wicks, and, indeed, many of their friends, were pon- 
dering upon these things, thaf something happened 
which, as has been hinted above, gave great assist- 
ance when it was most sorely needed. 

One morning, as Richard Fenwick was wending 
his way slowly toward the Bartmore home (for, 
though the despondent condition of his friend 
sorely grieved him, he visited him daily), he beheld 
posted on the church door, and in other conspicuous 
places in the village, placards announcing that a 
lecture would be delivered in the church by a Mr. 
Williams, who, the cards set forth, was a blind man. 


26 


Michael Bartmore 


Fenwick stood still and re-read the notice: in all 
his lifetime he had never known a blind man to 
visit Ormsby, nor had he ever before considered the 
question of what blind people did in order that they 
might live. He probably thought that when poor 
Bartmore said again and again that he had been 
rendered helpless and useless as a producer, he 
spoke the truth ; and yet here was a blind man who 
was not sitting still, not helpless, but actually going 
about from place to place and delivering lectures, 
and. doubtless, supporting himself by means of this 
enterprise. It occurred to Fenwick that, perhaps, 
if he could induce Bartmore to attend this lecture, 
and if he could bring the two men together, the 
active man might be able to inspire some hope, 
some activity, in the man who was so utterly cast 
down. Stepping briskly up to the door of the rec- 
tory, he asked to speak with the minister, and, with 
but few preliminaries, laid before that worthy man 
his new-found hope. The rector heard him pa- 
tiently, and became himself elated with the new 
idea. 

“I knew not what to say when this man applied 
for our little room; I feared we could not gather 
together sufficient people to make it worth his while 
to come, and yet, though I could promise but little, 
I found myself constrained, almost against my bet- 
ter judgment, to bid him come and speak to us. I 
hope our poor dear Bartmore may be inspired by 
this man, and I hope, too, that Ormsby will turn 
out in goodly numbers to hear him ; for I fancy he 
has need of all he can thus earn.” 

“His lecture shall be well attended, sir,” re- 
sponded Fenwick; “I’ll do one good day’s work, at 
least, for I’ll go among the people and urge them 
to come. I’ll bring the farmers in from the country 
round about, and he shall do well here : and if he’ll 
help Michael Bartmore, if he will inspire some hope 
in him, it shall prove a better thing than he may 


Michael Bartmore 


27 


think; for my father knows how to requite a real 
service to the community, such as this would be.” 

Leaving the good minister, Fenwick hastened to 
the house of Bartmore, and, with all the persuasive 
arguments he could use, almost forced him to 
promise that he would accompany him that evening 
to hear the lecture. Having accomplished this, he 
went forth and spent hours in visiting the people 
and urging them to come, telling them it would 
help Bartmore if they would do so. He was late 
getting home that evening, and immediately notified 
the household of what he had been doing, and that 
they must all make ready and attend the lecture. 
The elder Fenwick ably seconded his son’s efforts, 
you may be sure. He ordered out his horses and 
his wagons, and sent them forth to gather in and to 
convey all the people they could carry to the lecture. 
Dick (he was the merry Dick of old on this day) 
hastily attired himself, left the conduct of affairs 
in his father’s willing charge, and hastened back 
to Bartmore’s home, where he had promised to 
come and escort him and his aged mother to hear 
the blind man Williams lecture. 

Surely Richard Fenwick had done his work well. 
The village people flocked to the little Sabbath 
School room of the church, and the people from the 
surrounding country also came in great numbers, 
so that long before the time set for the lecture to 
begin the little room was crowded to its utmost 
limit, and many more persons were outside, who 
clambered for admittance. When young Fenwick 
reached the place, he found these people who were 
unable to get into the small room reluctantly turn- 
ing away from the place, and, not wishing to see 
them disappointed, he went at once to the good 
clergyman and asked him to permit the lecturer to 
speak in the church, which, he urged, would accom- 
modate all those who had come to hear him. 


28 


Michael Bartmore 


“I know,” said Fenwick, “that you do not feel 
about this thing as some do. Your church is conse- 
crated and is for worship of God alone; but the 
people want to hear this man, and we believe he 
may help Bartmore.” 

The Rev. Mr. Dansbury was a man well beloved 
by the people of Ormsby, whether they were of his 
flock or not ; and his broad sympathies in the inter- 
ests and trials of his fellow creatures made both 
men and women confide in him, and often give care- 
ful heed to his wise counsels. He was a staunch 
churchman, zealous for the predominating influence 
of those principles and articles of faith for which 
he stood; but he was not a bigot, and never lost 
an opportunity to do good if he saw one. He 
smiled benignly upon young Fenwick, and made 
answer : 

“Surely, in the name of the author of all human- 
ity, this man shall speak to the people in the 
church. He is an earnest man, and desires to tell 
us how he has been sustained in his efforts to over- 
come, as far as may be possible, the obstacles which 
seem so insurmountable. He shall speak in the 
church of God, and no man will gainsay what I am 
doing; for the church is for the people, and will 
ever open its doors to the righteous cause of suffer- 
ing humanity.” 

So it came about that the church was opened, and 
the people flocked in, and it was soon well filled. 
Bartmore sat well forward, and Fenwick sat beside 
him, while on the other side sat his aged mother, 
whose careworn face won the deepest sympathy of 
all those who looked upon it that night. The peo- 
ple were now seated, and Mr. Dansbury introduced 
Mr. Williams, the speaker of the evening, who, he 
said, would, in addition to delivering his lecture on 
bee culture, in which he had been very successful 
for some years, offer a few brief remarks upon the 
handicap under which the sightless are placed, with 


Michael Bartmore 


29 


a view to showing that no handicap exists against 
which there is not some means of fighting, and a 
good chance of winning at least a partial victory. 

The lecture, or talk, was delivered in a simple 
manner, and it interested those who heard it 
greatly. The speaker stated that there were many 
things to be done in connection with his work 
which he had long since learned that he could not 
well do; “but,” he said, “I never doubted every- 
body. I knew what was to be done, so I found the 
right people to do the work, and showed them what 
to do. If I made a mistake and got the wrong per- 
son, I soon discovered the fact, because I failed to 
obtain results; then I tried other help, and have 
had no. more trouble with those I have employed 
than sighted men, and I have found my helpers 
become even unusually interested and anxious to 
help me in my efforts.” 

As the sightless speaker went on telling of his 
profits and of his experiences in his work, many 
eyes were turned upon Michael Bartmore. From 
the first moment the speaker began the face of the 
suffering listener showed that his attention was 
wholly fixed upon what was being said. When 
some trite remark was made by the speaker, such 
as, “There are men who can direct others how to 
do things they may be unable to do themselves. I 
have often seen a small, weak man show a big, 
strong man how to use his strength to far greater 
advantage than its possessor would ever have used 
it,” his face lighted, and new thoughts seemed to be 
dawning upon him. 

Interesting as the lecture was, the few remarks 
which were made afterwards must be considered to 
have made the first strong impression upon Michael 
Bartmore; and we cannot do better than to quote 
his very words : 

“I have been asked to say a few words concerning 
the loss of my sight, and of the reason why I have 


30 


Michael Bartmore 


selected the line of work in which I am now en- 
gaged. I came here to tell of bee raising as a 
profitable business if carefully managed. I did not 
mean to say more concerning my blindness than 
might really be necessary; but since I have been 
asked to say something on this subject, that my 
success, small as it has been, may perhaps help my 
fellow-men, I will tell you briefly all that I can 
say about it. 

“I was born on a farm, and from my early boy- 
hood days I was interested in the bees which my 
father always kept upon the place. I had my sight 
until I had reached the age of thirty. I had mar- 
ried five years previously, and when the darkness 
came upon me, I had a delicate wife and two little 
ones to care for. For a time I was utterly crushed. 
I saw nothing but dependence upon the bounty of 
others, and my people had little indeed to give. 
My wife was stronger than I was, and she it was 
who urged me not to give up, nor to try to master 
some new plan of life, but to try whether I might 
not devise methods for doing at least a part of the 
work I knew so well. She promised that she would 
help, and assured me that if I would but try, I must 
succeed.” 

Here the speaker paused, and those who watched 
him closely saw the look of pain and sadness that 
rested for a moment upon his calm, earnest face. 
Then he went on : 

“But that help has been taken from me now. It 
never failed me, and the memory of her patience, 
the encouragement she gave me still lives, and helps 
me, even though she who comforted and steadfastly 
clung to me has gone to that rest which I know 
must await such as she was. The thought she gave 
to me was, that I ought to try to use those things 
I had learned, if possible, before my sight failed 
me, and this has been the secret of my success in 
the humble calling I have chosen. If any man be 


Michael Bart more 


31 


stricken blind, let him bear his affliction as a man 
should bear the inevitable in life, not by vainly 
repining and resigning himself to a condition of 
hopeless despair, but by laboring unceasingly to fill 
some place in life, however humble, that shall ren- 
der him truly useful and happy. If a man can only 
know that he is of some use in the world, and he is 
a right-thinking man, he cannot become a victim to 
that morbidness which is so ruinous. Show your 
fellow-men that you will do your part, be ready to 
profit by your own mistakes, accept in a generous 
spirit the kindly courtesies others will show you, 
and the blind man becomes a happy man, and a 
man who is ever sure that where eyes are needed, he 
need never invoke their aid in vain. 

“And now a word to this good man, and to the 
people who have done generously by me this night, 
who have come out in such great numbers to hear 
me. I am traveling for a brief period, delivering 
my lecture, because, during the last year, my enter- 
prise did not yield well, and I had need of funds. 
How many are present here I know not, but this 
thing I do know, that I have been permitted to 
speak in a house consecrated to the worship of Him 
from whom cometh all good, and for this, and for 
your kindly treatment of me, I thank you. I am 
not one of those who fancy that the only way to be 
independent is to refuse the willing help of others. 
I need help, and so do we all, and though, perhaps, 
I may never have the chance to do it, I am ready 
and anxious to help when and where I can.” 

The speaker ceased. There was a moment of 
absolute silence, and then, before a soul could stir 
to leave the church, Michael Bartmore, tall, his 
head erect, and his manly form trembling visibly 
with emotion, stood up, and in a clear, firm voice, 
cried out: 

“Your chance to help has come to you this night. 
All of you have heard what this good man has said, 


32 


Michael Bartmore 


and now T want your help. I’ll try to do as this 
brave man does, and I’m sure all of you will sup- 
port me in my effort.” 

Bartmore could say no more, nor was there any 
need that he should say more. The people flocked 
joyfully about him, bringing Williams, the blind 
lecturer with them; and it was a goodly sight to 
see the two men as they clasped hands in a firm, 
brotherly grasp. And this meeting was the begin- 
ning of a friendship which lasted through their 
lives. 

The little church at Ormsby was indeed a refuge 
that night for the sorrowing and the afflicted, and 
as the holy man who had bade this sightless man to 
speak in the house of worship stood there in the 
midst of those now rejoicing people, his face was 
radiant with the great joy that welled up in, his 
heart because he had been guided to do this good 
deed. 

There had come into that church a man bowed 
down with sorrow and despair — a strong man tot- 
tering and faltering as he walked ; a man whose 
very soul seemed crushed within him. There went 
forth from that sacred house that same man with 
head erect, with hope and radiant joy shining like 
a blessed diadem upon his brow, and with a step 
firm and steady, like the step of a well and buoyant 
man. Michael Bartmore knew not then what he 
would do ; it did not matter what he might do ; it 
was enough that he felt sure now that he should 
do something, and he was willing to grapple with 
his handicap in that spirit of manly resignation 
which makes of human beings bright and shining 
light along the rugged, ofttimes dark path of life 
— beacon lights to guide the faltering footsteps of 
their struggling, striving brothers. 

Old Fenwick was beside himself with joy, which 
he expressed after his own fashion as soon as he 
got outside of the church. He brought down his 


Michael Bartmore 


33 


mighty hands smartly upon the shoulders of Bart- 
more, asked him when he would come and take 
charge of his farm, and, as was his habit, burst into 
a roar of laughter, slapping his legs with those 
same mighty hands aforesaid with such force that 
if he bore no bruises from the blows, it must have 
been because the legs had grown tough from the 
frequency of such usage. 

As for Bartmore’s mother, her troubled face now 
wore an almost heavenly look of peace. She had 
sorrowed with her beloved son, and because he had 
lost all hope, she, too, had lost heart; but, believing 
in him, trusting in him as she did, as she had always 
done, his now revived hopes inspired her anew, and 
she saw a future, not of utter misery and despair 
for her son, but a future of happiness and usefulness 
in which she, too, might help him. How fondly she 
held the hand of the blind man who had spoken the 
inspiring words which had awakened in Michael 
those thoughts which must culminate in his suc- 
cess ! How fervently the words of blessing upon 
the stranger were spoken ! And when she said to 
young Fenwick, laying her hand affectionately 
upon his shoulder, “Richard, you have done a great 
work this day; how shall I ever repay you?” who 
can marvel that the big fellow’s eyes were moist as 
he answered softly : “I have longed to do one good 
thing, and if only he will let me, I will be eyes for 
him until my life’s end.” 

Williams was a prisoner at Ormsby. His bees 
would not run away, Bartmore told him, and they 
had need of him in their midst for a few days. Old 
Fenwick, too, urged him to remain, saying that he 
and his son wanted to have a talk with him; and 
the good minister so earnestly seconded their re- 
quests that the man was forced to yield to these 
united importunities; and so he remained awhile 
with Bartmore. 


34 


Michael Bartmore 


“There’s just one thing troubling me,” said Bart- 
more, as he and his new-found friend sat together 
after breakfast on the morning following the lec- 
ture; “I’m afraid people will do for me, and will 
accept what I do, not as they would do with others. 
They will hide from me the defects in my work, and 
accept what I offer only because I am blind. I do 
not want that ; I want to earn what I get honestly 
and thoroughly.” 

“I’ve heard that before,” answered Williams; “I 
understand what you mean, and you ought to want 
to earn what you get ; but, remember this thing al- 
ways, that the men and women of this world are but 
stewards of those possessions that are committed 
to their keeping, and if any of them desire to put 
forth a helping hand and aid us in our battle for a 
place in the busy world, neither you nor I have a 
right to prevent them. There is a great difference 
between stiff-necked, empty pride, and real inde- 
pendence, and we should have a care that we do 
not mistake the one for the other.” 

So Williams remained for a few days. He went 
and had a talk with the Fenwicks, and many plans 
were laid which, as will be seen, though not carried 
out in accordance with some of the original sug- 
gestions of Fenwick and his enthusiastic son, re- 
sulted, nevertheless, in the ultimate realization of 
the thing which Williams then expressed the hope 
might come to pass. Before he left, he was assured 
that Michael Bartmore should receive a fair trial at 
Minglewood Farm, and again and again he asserted 
that the blind man who had once managed the place 
would manage it again. 

“Now, then,” said Fenwick to his son after their 
talk with Williams, “I’m ready to try anything, or 
to do anything I can for Michael; and so we’ll just 
tell him that we are satisfied that he can fill his old 
place here, and give him his old salary. You and I 
understand that he cannot really fill the position, 


Michael Bart mo re 


35 


but we can let him feel that he can, and see to it 
that what he cannot do is done for him. This man 
Williams is a bright fellow, but I suppose that in 
his town they look out for him, and so they ought 
to do.” 

“Of course we will help him,” answered the son ; 
"he must be made as happy as possible, and we 
must seize upon any opportunity that may come 
to us to bring this about. I am ready, father, to 
give up all my plans for the future, and I will re- 
main with you and take the burden of the work 
from your shoulders; for, if, as you say, Michael 
cannot do the work he once did, you will need me 
here; so I bid farewell to college life, to that pur- 
suit on which I had set my heart. This is a disap- 
pointment to me, father, but what is it when com- 
pared with the terrible void that has come into poor 
Bartmore’s life? I want to help him ; and since you 
will do this thing, I shall find happiness in perform- 
ing for him the work he may be unable to do.” 

Mrs. Fenwick sat knitting in her old place as 
these two talked and planned thus, and a quiet, 
almost heavenly expression came upon her sweet 
face as she listened to the manly words of her son. 
She waited patiently until they had finished speak- 
ing, and then she said, looking fondly at the boy: 

“I think Michael will soon know w'hat he can 
really do, and if he should ever discover that you 
are trying to make him think that he is of service 
when he is not, you will find that your chances for 
helping him are lost altogether. Wait a little while, 
and perhaps Michael will come to you ; and, if you 
would really help him, let him say what he would 
like to do, and let him try that. If he succeeds at 
■one thing, he will strive to do other things, and it 
may be that some day he will truly and honestly 
fill his old position.” 

Old Fenwick smoked awhile in silence, and Rich- 
ard looked earnestly into his mother’s kindly face. 


36 


Michael Bartmore 


“I see, mother,” said the old man, looking admir- 
ingly upon her, “that if this business is to succeed, 
you will be at the bottom of it. You are right; if 
ever any man fools Michael Bartmore, and he dis- 
covers it, no matter how good that man’s intentions 
may be, Bartmore will trust him no more. If he 
comes to us, we will do as you say; but if he does 
not come, mother ” 

“But he will surely come, my dear,” she an- 
swered. “He believes now that he can work; let 
us, then, wait for him, and let us be guided by him.” 

So they decided to do as this good and wise 
woman suggested, and it was well, indeed, that they 
thus decided; and her insight into the deeper feel- 
ings of the afflicted man did much to accomplish 
the cherished desires of her son and husband. 

When young Fenwick next visited his old friend, 
he found him quite cheerful, and there was a look 
of firm resolve upon his face that was far more 
pleasant to look upon than the dreadful despairing 
look that had so long dwelt there. Bartmore wel- 
comed his friend with the old bright smile which 
Fenwick had never hoped to see again. 

“Dick,” he said, as soon as they were seated, 
“that man Williams is a wonderful fellow. No one 
ever came to arouse him as he has come to me, and 
yet he went on like a brave man, and he is a useful, 
busy man, too.” 

“Yes,” answered Dick, “and now that you are 
aroused, old fellow, we all know that you will do 
as great, and even greater, things than he does. 
Keep up a brave heart ; don’t be foolish and refuse 
to let your friends help you, and you’ll be manager 
of Minglewood Farm again one of these days.” 

Bartmore smiled rather sadly as he made answer: 
“Of that I have little hope, but as a hand on that 
farm, I am sure I can earn a living. I have thought 
of work that I know I can do, and I shall come to 
your father to-morrow, and if he can give me the 


Michael Bartmore 


37 


work, I will try to do it ; and as I go on from day 
to day, I shall try to find ways in which I may do 
other work. It is like beginning all over again, 
Dick, you know ; but it is not so bad if I know that 
I am to be given a fair chance, and I believe your 
father will not fear to let me try to do a thing if I 
tell him I believe I can do it.” 

This was just what Richard Fenwick wanted 
He did not know what Bartmore might be able to 
do ; but he did know that a disposition on one side 
to try, and on the other side to wait and give the 
striving man every chance, failure was impossible. 
It is hard to strive against physical disability of any 
kind, and those who do strive to overcome as far 
as may be possible any such handicap, deserve 
much credit; but hard as is the fight against the 
disability, the fight to overcome the deep-rooted 
unbelief which is even in this late day so rife among 
those who, being more fortunate, seem unable to 
conceive that men will and do fight bravely on, and 
would always win, if only they are given a fair 
chance. Michael Bartmore was, indeed, favored in 
this particular ; for, though the Fenwicks were by no 
means sure that he could perform any really useful 
task, they were quite willing, and even anxious, to 
give him the thing for which he asked — a chance 
to show them what a man in earnest and under 
great necessity could do ; for even in this day, when 
so much is done to remove the bar by which sight- 
less men and women, intelligent, and often talented, 
are forced into comparative inactivity because of 
their utter inability to battle down this skepticism 
among others who are possessed of sight, still 
exists. 

Let no one who may read this tale say that these 
words are written reproachfully. No man has ever 
drunk more deeply of that milk of human kindness 
which, in spite of what many may say, flows freely 
in this good old world than has the writer; nor 


38 


Michael Bartmore 


would he be true to his knowledge of men if he 
failed to acknowledge here the wonderful efforts 
which many philanthropic and broad-minded men 
and women are constantly making in our behalf. 
But, while the hearts of most men and women are 
ready to sympathize with us because of our handi- 
cap, unbelief, and, consequently, unwillingness to 
give to us a chance to try to do what we can, is 
still the great drawback to our success. There are 
many talented sightless organists in our land, yet 
how few are found in our churches ! Do any sight- 
less men or women sing in the choir of the church 
where you worship? Are any of your children 
taught music by any of the able sightless teachers 
who are scattered plentifully throughout our land? 
Do you men of business meet and treat the sightless 
man of business when he enters your place as you 
meet and treat the sighted? Think upon these 
things, and consider that the sweetest bread man 
can eat is the bread that he can earn; and if you 
can give a man without sight a chance to earn half 
a loaf, you will do a greater kindness than by giv- 
ing him many loaves which he has not earned. 

When Bartmore made his visit to Minglewood, 
his mother accompanied him ; and he at once stated 
plainly what he desired. 

“I believe that at present I can earn but little,” 
he said. “If my hopes are realized, I feel that ere 
long I can do many things about the place which 
will prove of use. If you believe that I can earn 
so much, I would ask that the little cabin on your 
place be given to me for a place of abode for my 
mother and myself, and I feel sure that I can earn 
enough to justify this and sufficient wages to enable 
us to be comfortable. I ask but to try, and if I 
fail, I shall surely know it and cease to burden you.” 

Of course, Mr. Fenwick readily agreed to this 
proposal ; but he told Bartmore that the cabin was 


Michael Bartmore 


39 


in need of some repairs, which he said he would 
cause to be made. 

“If you don’t mind,” responded Bartmore, “I’ll 
try to make those repairs. Williams told me of 
many devices he had for using tools, and I have 
already tried a little, and I find it isn’t half so diffi- 
cult as I fancied it might be. All I need is a rule, 
and if Dick will make me one, I can manage very 
well.” 

Dick would make the rule, you may be sure. It 
was but a stick two feet in length, and each inch 
was marked by a round-headed tack on one edge, 
while on the other edge were tacks set half an inch 
apart. Bartmore had no difficulty in making this 
answer his purpose, and so he was soon busy ; and, 
though he found difficulties in the way, he ceased 
not to strive against them, and when, after three 
days of hard toil, he said his task was done, old Mr. 
Fenwick went out to inspect it; and, though, per- 
haps, he expected only to see a partial success, he 
returned to his house a much surprised and a much 
wiser man. 

“Dick,” he cried, “Bartmore never did a job bet- 
ter when he had his sight. You go and look at it, 
and you’ll say the same thing.” 

Seated there by her little table, her sweet face 
turned toward her husband, Mrs. Fenwick said 
softly : 

“Father, we shall see the day when Michael will 
be the manager of Minglewood again.” 

Now Michael Bartmore settled down to work in 
right good earnest, and as he found himself able 
to accomplish some new thing almost daily, he grew 
happier, and soon became the cheerful, pleasant- 
faced Michael of old. When his affliction had 
weighed so heavily upon him, he had lost the merry 
old way of which the people were so fond. Many 
had avoided him, not at all because of any lack of 
sympathy, but because they could not brook the 


40 


Michael Bartmore 


mournful look of utter dejection that rested upon 
his face. But now it was very different, and people 
sought him, and delighted to talk with him as they 
had done before, and the boys and girls of the vil- 
lage renewed their friendship with him, and found 
him still interested in their childish sports. As a 
little child steps cautiously at first, uncertain of its 
power to walk, even so did Bartmore move cau- 
tiously in his efforts to do those things without the 
aid of sight which he had once done so easily with 
the help of that most valuable sense. 

Having demonstrated to his own satisfaction, and 
to the satisfaction of the people on the farm, that 
his hands had by no means forgotten their cunning 
in the use of tools, Bartmore set about repairing all 
the outbuildings on the place. Fenwick gave orders 
that any of the hands must assist the sightless man 
when he desired their aid. “And mind,” he said, 
“he knows what he wants ; so when he asks one of 
you to do a thing, just do it as he directs.” This 
instruction was of more real help than perhaps even 
Mr. Fenwick suspected; for it at once established 
the important impression upon the minds of the 
hands that, though Bartmore did not see, he knew 
exactly what he wanted. And it soon became clear 
also that if he did make a mistake, he was ready to 
acknowledge it, and never tried to fix the responsi- 
bility upon others. If a man said a thing could not 
be done as Bartmore directed, or seemed inclined to 
shirk, Bartmore would set about doing the thing 
himself ; and it always happened then that the man 
who had demurred became ashamed and either fin- 
ished the task, or never demurred again. 

It would be interesting to follow this man step 
by step as he mastered difficulty after difficulty 
which arose. Sometimes it was many days before 
he succeeded in accomplishing the thing he had set 
out to do ; but he always either accomplished it, or 
found that he could not, and said so. Michael Bart- 


Michael Bartmore 


41 


more never pretended, never allowed people to be- 
lieve that he could do a thing which he could not 
do; consequently, he escaped those humiliating 
situations which must occur in the lives of those 
who seek to give an exaggerated impression re- 
specting their capabilities. 

After the lapse of one year, Bartmore was receiv- 
ing good wages, and he was earning all he received. 
He suggested the introduction of improved and 
labor-saving machinery, and, as he had stated, the 
profits began to increase. Fenwick began to see 
that Bartmore’s executive ability had not deserted 
him in the least, and so, being anxious to do all in 
his power to make the sightless man happy, he 
offered him his old place, stating that it was clear 
to him, and to everyone else, that he, Bartmore, 
could manage the place in a perfectly satisfactory 
manner. 

“You want to hasten a thing which we must be 
very sure about,” answered Bartmore. “Let us 
wait a little longer, sir; I am satisfied to have 
things as they are at present. I want to manage 
the farm, and, thanks to your patience and good- 
ness, I believe I shall yet be able to do it; but if 
you will pardon my saying so, I shall know best 
when I am truly able to do it, and, since you are 
good enough to trust and believe in me, I will come 
to you and ask for the place as soon as I am sure 
I can discharge the duties thereof. I appreciate 
your treatment of me, and I want to justify what 
you are doing; so let me work it out in my own 
way.” 

Fenwick smiled such a warm,' approving smile 
that it is a pity Bartmore could not see it; but he 
could and did hear the warm words of honest com- 
mendation which fell from the old man’s lips, and 
they lent new zest to his determined efforts to be- 
come what he now felt himself not quite fitted to 
become. He said again that he wanted the position, 


42 


Michael Bart mo re 


and that he would not cease to do all in his power 
to fit himself for it. 

It is not to be supposed that Michael Bartmore 
attempted to do all the work of every kind that was 
to be done on a large farm; for this was neither 
his business nor his ambition. He did not feel that 
it was at all incumbent upon him, for example, to 
care for the horses from day to day in the matter 
of feeding and cleaning them ; but he did consider 
it necessary to examine into the condition of those 
horses frequently, and he soon became so well ac- 
customed to making such examinations that those 
who had the work to do came to consider it useless 
to try in any way to shirk or slight their work, 
knowing, as they did, that the fault would be dis- 
covered, and that Bartmore, though always gentle, 
and ready to forgive the shortcomings of his fellow 
man, would insist upon the work being done over 
in the proper manner. 

It was nearly at the close of the second year of 
what Bartmore good-humoredly called his probation 
that the crowning joy of his life came to him, and, 
though he was daily working to attain it, it came 
unexpectedly, after all ; and we cannot better con- 
clude our tale than by giving an account of just 
how it happened. 

One morning Mr. Fenwick asked Michael if he 
and his mother would dine with his family on that 
day. This was not at all usual ; but Bartmore, hav- 
ing planned much work for the day, asked if they 
might not be excused, saying that another time he 
and his mother would be glad to come. 

“This is a busy day with me,” he said, “and I am 
afraid it will be late before I finish up.” 

“I have invited friends whom I want you to meet, 
Michael,” answered the good man, “and I shall have 
to ask you to put off your busy day until to-morrow. 
I did not suppose it would matter very much to you, 


Michael Bartmore 


43 


so I went ahead and made all my arrangements ; so 
we will expect you.” 

“The men have their orders, and I ” 

“And you are a stubborn rascal,” broke in Fen- 
wick. “Let the men alone to-day; let’s see what 
they’ll do. I believe most of them think you know 
what they are doing, even when you are not present, 
anyhow. Let them alone, and be ready for dinner 
on time.” 

There was no gainsaying the old gentleman, and 
so, though Bartmore did not quite heed the injunc- 
tion to let the men alone for the day, he so arranged 
matters that at the appointed hour he was quite 
ready, and, accompanied by his proud and devoted 
mother, repaired to the house of his friend and bene- 
factor. 

When Michael and his mother arrived, they were 
indeed surprised to find that many other guests 
were present. There was old Dr. Chapman, and 
with him D f. Granston. There, too, was Williams, 
the lecturer, the Rev. Mr. Dansbury and his daugh- 
ter, and many of the leading farmers of the district. 
Young Fenwick, who had long since returned to his 
•college, because, as his father had told him, he was 
not at all needed about the place while Bartmore 
was there, had come home for the occasion, and was 
beaming with delight upon everyone present, not 
forgetting an occasional covert and expressive 
glance at Miss Dansbury, who, though the most 
retiring and modest girl for miles around, did not 
:seem displeased at all with his behavior. Everyone 
greeted Bartmore and his mother warmly, and 
•everyone seemed to be full of some great joy which 
burst forth in wreaths of sunny smiles that warmed 
the hearts of every member of that little gathering. 

As the last guests arrived and dinner was an- 
nounced, old Fenwick stepped forward and gave his 
arm to Mrs. Bartmore; while Mrs. Fenwick, a 
sweet, triumphant smile lighting up her lovely face, 


44 


Michael Bartmore 


took the arm of the man she had said would again 
be manager of Minglewood Farm. As for Dick, he 
hit upon a happy thought. Of course, it was nat- 
ural and right that he should take Miss Dansbury 
out to dinner, and he had no intention of foregoing 
that pleasure; but, so anxious was he that Wil- 
liams should understand and feel that his family 
very much appreciated him, that, setting aside cus- 
tom, he offered first his escort to Miss Dansbury, 
and then insisted that Williams must go out to 
dinner with them. 

Some reader who may do us the honor to peruse 
these pages may be reading at a time and in a place 
when it would be impossible to satisfy the inner 
man; so we mercifully refrain from giving an ac- 
count of the many tempting dishes that were served 
at the dinner, knowing full well that such an account 
must make even a full man hungry. Let it suffice 
that after Mr. Dansbury had reverently asked a 
blessing, the guests fell to in right good earnest, and 
amid merry talking and happy, innocent mirth, did 
ample justice to the meal. 

When the dinner was finished, the Rev. Mr. Dans- 
bury called upon their host for an after-dinner 
speech. It was never quite clear, but young Dick 
hinted afterwards that this had all been previously 
arranged between the good rector and his father. 
The latter insisted that, unless some such plan were 
adopted, it would be difficult, if not impossible, for 
him to find any way to begin. 

“I never tried to make a speech in my life,” said 
Fenwick, rising in his place at the head of the 
table. “I could never make a regulation speech, no 
matter how much nor how hard I did try; but I 
guess I can say a thing that I very much want to 
say, that I am proud and glad I can say with suffi- 
cient clearness to make myself understood.' 

“All save two of us understand why we are gath- 
ered together here this day, and it only remains for 


Michael Bartmore 


45 


me to tell these two. Michael Bartmore, here in 
the presence of these, your friends and well-wishers, 
I again offer to you your old place as manager of 
Minglewood Farm. I offer this place to you, be- 
cause you have honestly won it for yourself. From 
the beginning, your influence here, your practical 
knowledge of the work, and your ability to cope 
with what even I once considered insurmountable 
difficulties, your honest and manly desire to be in 
every possible way of service to me and mine, — all 
these things have worked great good upon this 
place. My farm is better cared for, my stock and 
my appliances are in better order, and my profits 
are greater than they have ever been before. Be- 
cause of these things, Michael, and because, too, of 
the splendid battle I have seen you fight, I now 
tender to you this place; and in doing so, I am 
serving myself, as well as trying to honor you.” 

There followed then a long pause as old Fenwick 
resumed his seat. All eyes were turned upon Bart- 
more, who sat as one in a trance. But as the sight- 
less man felt the silence, and knew he was the cen- 
ter of the looks and thoughts of those about him, 
that strength of will which had so helped him in his 
struggle against his handicap failed him not alto- 
gether. He slowly arose, and in a voice that fal- 
tered often, and broke more than once as he spoke, 
he made reply : 

“This is the happiest hour I have known since the 
night on which another sightless man showed me a 
light that no blindness need ever shut out from me. 

“You have all heard the generous words that have 
just been spoken to me, and you all feel that they 
do honor to my ever-devoted mother. I can say 
nothing in reply that can make any of you know 
how deeply grateful I am that such words could be 
sincerely said to me in the presence of those I so 
love and esteem. I accept the trust you will repose 
in me, Mr. Fenwick. My father had the place, and 


46 


Michael Bartmore 


after him I had obtained it; and then — well, for 
a little while I had to give it up.” 

Here the speaker’s voice broke, and it was some 
little time before he could go on. His mother sat 
gazing lovingly upon him, and all those who heard 
him were deeply impressed with the great earnest- 
ness of his manner. 

“But,” he went on, recovering himself, “that is 
all passed ; we must not be sad to-day, for the thing 
I have longed for, tried for, and unceasingly prayed 
for, has now come to me. We have all heard it 
stated that if the blind lead the blind, they will both 
fall into a ditch ; but surely this applies not to that 
mental leading which I received from one who is 
with us to-day; for — and I say it here because it 
is due him — if this man had not been mercifully 
sent to me, I fear I might still be in that state of 
utter hopelessness which had fastened itself so 
firmly upon me. If ever the sightless are moved 
and rightly guided to help themselves, I am per- 
suaded that it will be most effectually done by other 
sightless persons who, like this good man, have 
found for themselves the way. If I have gained 
any honor among men, if I have successfully grap- 
pled with and, so far as may be possible, mastered 
my handicap, I say that the man who spoke to us 
that night in the house of God gave to me the in- 
spiration; and for this I want to thank him.” 

Here again he paused, and then, his voice grow- 
ing stronger and, if possible, more sincere in its 
ring, he concluded thus : 

“From the moment I came to this place, I re- 
solved to win if I could the position that has been 
given to me this day. I can say that no man could 
ever have been shown greater consideration than 
has been shown to me by you, and by all who are 
in your house, Mr. Fenwick. I have had every wish 
granted, and now it shall be my life-work to so 
serve you and yours, that no regret may come to 


Michael Bartmore 


47 


you because of me, or of your great and limitless 
goodness to me.” 

Then there was much shaking of hands, and 
everybody talked at once, and Williams found him- 
self as much honored and congratulated as Bart- 
more. It was in vain that he protested again and 
again that, whether he had come among them or 
not, Bartmore would have aroused himself. Bart- 
more then insisted, and ever after insisted, that the 
inspiring words of the man who spoke in the little 
church at Ormsby had moved him to make the effort 
concerning which we have tried to tell in this hum- 
ble tale. 


(The End.) 
















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